


For Now and Forever

by Jade_Masquerade



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:14:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26941972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade_Masquerade/pseuds/Jade_Masquerade
Summary: Jon and Sansa steal away to share a frosty morning together in the godswood.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 44
Kudos: 105
Collections: Jonsa Autumn Drabbles 2020





	For Now and Forever

**Author's Note:**

> A couple days late but written for Jonsa Autumn Drabbles Day 5: Frosty Mornings

The leaves of the weirwood in the godswood are still so stark red, Jon thinks, his world inverting as he lays down on the frost-covered ground. Its colors never waver, staying a static blood red, not even while those of the trees around it are awash in shades of fiery orange and vibrant yellow and rich gold. Autumn has turned the surrounding forest into a sea of color that seems to shimmer compared to the dark stone walls and the muted evergreens. 

Sansa’s hair glows brilliantly even against that backdrop, the sun glinting off her locks like a halo. She looks as though she belongs here, a goddess in this holy place, fashioned by the gods themselves with her copper hair and pale skin that match the sacred heart tree, and Jon is only grateful to pay witness to such beauty. 

This early in the morning, the slightest hint of winter can be felt starting to creep into the air, even if by the afternoon the sun will have melted away the thinnest layer of ice that crunches beneath him as he settles on his back and bends his knees so the soles of his boots crack the smooth panes into thousands of tiny shards. He can see Sansa’s breath curl on the light breeze as she gasps, sinking down on him as he pushes up into her. 

They have stolen away here, trading the cozy warmth of the fire in their chambers for the bite of the dawn’s chill. Jon scarcely feels it though, not with Sansa’s heat all around him when he slips deeper with a groan, his blood burning, a flush creeping over his skin beneath his cloak and the old tunic he’d hastily donned when Sansa’s eyes had shone with excitement at the prospect of this escapade. 

Sansa has pulled the edges of said tunic open now, its laces dangling loose, and she shifts lower, lifting the hem to touch the remnants of the scars that still linger there and then the line of hair snaking down below them, the muscles of his abdomen jumping at the soft scrape of her nails. Beneath her, he mirrors her movements, sliding his hands up her thighs under her skirts, to knead the stretches of open skin above her stockings, skimming slowly until he reaches where they are joined. 

Sansa had told the guards something about prayer as they’d left the keep, insisting they needed no escort, that they were merely off to pay their respects to the old gods on this brisk, splendid morning, and he stifles a laugh at the irony of that now as he curses when she starts to move into his touch, her hips circling, her hands tangling in the mess of clothing clinging to them. 

He imagines this brief respite is the nearest thing to heaven that can possibly exist, where they’ve come to escape the burdens of serving as Lord and Lady of Winterfell, the responsibilities of being the ruling King and Queen in the North, and the amount of dedication and care required of their most cherished and treasured roles of Mama and Papa. It would have been pleasant to remain among the comforts of the furs of their bed and the steaming walls filled with water flowing from the hot springs, and they certainly had spent many a contented morning enjoying each other surrounded by those simple pleasures. Such luxuries, though, came with what could both be blessings and costs all at once: quiet knocks asking what they wished for breakfast, missives reporting news from wintertown, and the patter of insistent little feet who wish to join them abed at an ungodly hour, swathed in knit blankets of their own and accompanied more often than not by Ghost. 

No, Jon thinks, this was the right choice, as his wife arches her back and starts to make sounds she won’t dare utter within the walls of Winterfell’s keep. Here her moans and cries can be mistaken for the call of a bird, the rustle of leaves drifting free as they fade from the branches, the whisper of an autumn wind. The sounds will draw no attention, raise no concern, bring no knowing smirks or inquisitive questions from well-meaning companions who have become fiercely loyal and protective of their Lady Stark. He understands their defensiveness and their devotion and does not begrudge them it; how can he, when he feels that way himself whenever a visiting lord’s eyes wander towards Sansa or a petitioner directs his attention towards Jon only, forgetting to honor her with the thanks and titles she deserves? 

He brushes away the thoughts of those irritants, a familiar tension that has nothing to do with the frozen ground at his back building at the base of his spine, and he can feel it starting in Sansa, too, her cunt growing tighter, slicker around him, and he spills when she begins to flutter around him. The relief and pleasure of his peak wash over him, but they are accompanied by a bit of regret, since he knows this perfect moment will soon be past, and he will have to take up the throne of the North and his heavy crown again, and Sansa will sit beside him, stern as the coming winter instead of soft and sweet, sated and pliant, like the way she lolls on his chest as she waits to catch her breath again. 

But, just like the day they exchanged vows beneath this very tree, back when they had been hesitant to share merely a kiss, for now she is all his, and for now and forever, he is hers.


End file.
